


Things Found in the Wakes of Seasons

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine honestly just wants to survive December without anyone freezing. It's sort of a strange feeling, not being alone when the year spins out its last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Found in the Wakes of Seasons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Welp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welp/gifts).



> Les Mis, of course, is not my intellectual property, etc.
> 
> For Welp, who asked for "Gen fic of Gavroche, Eponine, and Grantaire being a family because their birth families are shitty, or really anything focusing on the relationship between these three." I know this is kind of short, but I hope it's to your liking and your tastes!

Paris is cold in November, and Éponine wishes they could afford to leave the heating on longer. But better safe than sorry, because the last thing they need right now is something to go wrong.

It just means that when she gets home out of the wind, it's not much of a relief, and she strips out of her work clothes for sweatpants and woolen socks (a gift from Bahorel, whose knitting is knobbly and occasionally kind of atrocious but always _warm_ ) and a sweater. Probably several sweaters. So Éponine bundles up and puts her things carefully away, because she might not have much but what she does have, she values.

It's better like this, warmer, and she's not too miserable as she pads out to the rest of the apartment, opening the curtains for a bit of light. There's no sign that Gavroche has dropped by, though she's more or less able to coax him into staying with them for about half the nights as fall fades into winter and more than that once the cold turns biting.

She feels like a fucking awful sister, sometimes, because she's staring at the kitchen counter in hopes he's scrawled a note or taken something from the fridge, and she has no _fucking_ clue where the hell Azelma even _is_ except not with her father, and how much of a fuck up does she have to be that this is her life. But, well, if Gavroche didn't stop by today, he might stop by tomorrow, with any luck.

Éponine sighs and gathers up the stack of mail that came in earlier in the day, and sits folded up on the couch to work through all of it. There's not much of note, and only one bill, which is better than it could be. She's not looking forward to December, though, which is always awful. But the amount is entered in the ledger she painstakingly keeps because Grantaire is _shit_ at math, so it's at least accounted for.

Then, because there's for once nothing left to do, she turns on her wheezing laptop that's missing about a quarter of the keys and catches up on all the terrible fantasy shows she doesn't usually have time to watch. It's a rare moment to catch a breath in everything, and she's so fucking glad that there isn't a meeting of any sort tonight, because Éponine is pretty sure she doesn't actually count as a person after that shit - certainly the customers never treat her like one. She really goddamn hates retail.

When Grantaire does show up, carrying a bag with fresh bread and cheese and shivering a little because he teaches self-defense on Thursdays and always gets cold walking home after. He has, as well, Gavroche trailing in behind him.

"Hey," Gavroche greets, trotting over to sit beside her, grin cheeky. "Did you miss me?"

"Like a missing fortune," Éponine replies dryly, and ruffles his hair because she's one of the few people who have the privilege as she looks him over. He's thin but not rail skinny the way he sometimes is when times are hard and his teeth all seem in place - he's probably due for a haircut, but he insists that he looks cool, so shaggy it stays. He's thirteen and Éponine is sure she wasn't that much of a handful. But then, Gavroche always has been, and she's just thankful to see him on occasion.

Gavroche snorts and bats at her hand. "I'm the jewel of your heart, the prize of your house, and you say you didn't even miss me. Rude!"

Éponine can't hold back of a snort of her own, because he's fucking _incorrigible_ , and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You staying tonight?"

"I'll grace you with my presence," he says, loftily. Éponine cocks a brow and glances at Grantaire, who looks like he's struggling to hold back laughter.

"Shakespeare," he mouths, brown eyes more amused and fond than anything. Which actually makes sense, because Gavroche seems to make a habit out of befriending every possible actor he can and learning as much as possible - which is a good bit. He's a better actor than her parents ever were, and infinitely more charming, and Éponine is just glad he's more interested in plays than running two-bit cons.

Gavroche is full of grandly cheerful stories and apparently has actually been following Bahorel around (as well as tormenting Enjolras, which she will freely admit is hilarious and does absolutely nothing to discourage it), which can only end badly. But she listens and doesn't ask any questions that probe too deep, and listens to Grantaire throw something together in the kitchen.

Dinner keeps Gavroche in the center of attention, which is his favorite place to be, and they both do their best to keep his plate full. Thankfully, he either doesn't notice or pretends not to, and Éponine can be glad for that. They manage to keep him entertained and non-destructive until it’s late enough that he’ll sleep.

He takes the couch happily enough and one of the spare pillows, tucked down under a heaping pile of blankets to keep out the cold.

“Thanks for bringing him back by,” Éponine says, sighing as she scrubs a hand over her face, leaning in the doorway to Grantaire’s bedroom.

Grantaire shrugs, a loose easy roll of his shoulders that suggests he’d been drinking something strong with dinner because he’s never _drunk_ when he’s teaching self-defense. A little tipsy when he’s teaching dance, maybe, but not when it’s self-defense.

They’ve had precisely one conversation on the subject, one that more or less ended with Grantaire telling her he’d tried to stop drinking once and it had gone badly, and the darkness to his face combined with a hint of a grimace suggested it had gone very badly indeed. But as long as he’s safe, and usually he is safe, and functional, Éponine won’t bring it up, especially now that he’s cut back so much.

But he can’t read her mind, so he continues, oblivious to her observations.

“I ran into him on the way back from the studio,” he says. “So I imagine it was more his choice than luck, but I’m glad all the same. It’s getting cold.”

Éponine makes a face. “You don’t say. Any chance he’ll stay with us next month?”

“Part of it, at least.” It’s Grantaire’s turn to sigh. “He’s smart, at least, enough not to risk getting deathly ill or frozen when he could have a couch and warm food. Or he’ll be out earning money on street corners thanks to the spirit of the season.”

“Fucking _Christmas_ ,” Éponine mumbles, because she fucking _hates_ the holidays, and Grantaire screws up his face in agreement. “Worst freaking time of the year.”

“I’d drink to that,” he mutters, a little vicious.

“You’d drink to anything,” Éponine snarks absently, then sighs, running her fingers through her hair. “Well. We just have to survive a month.”

Grantaire pauses and looks at her, and the corners of his mouth soften as he reaches out, his fingers barely brushing her shoulder. His eyes are gentle, which means he’s actually being sincere and serious for once. “Hey. We will. Now go and get some sleep, and I’ll make sure you’ve got coffee tomorrow.”

Éponine gives him a smile, wishes him good night, and goes to bed.

Gavroche stays another two nights before disappearing again, and Éponine tries and fails not to worry. November ends and drags on into December and she is so fucking tired all of the time. The hours are long and she really can’t turn down the overtime.

It’s not that they’re desperately in trouble. Living with Grantaire has actually given her the most financially stable situation Éponine has ever known. But still, their finances leave little enough left over, and she does everything she can to make sure that there’s not a threat of everything tipping back into terrible at a moment’s notice.

And this month, that means picking up every scrap of work that she can. Especially because, well, Gavroche needs a new coat and _she_ needs a new coat, and it would be really fucking nice to give her brother a gift that’s a little useless and a little nice even though they don’t really celebrate anything at all. (Or, as Grantaire puts it, it would be nice if Gavroche didn’t have to grow up to be as anxious and upset about Christmas as they both are. Which, fair enough.)

It’s halfway through the first week of December that Gavroche shows up during Éponine’s lunch break.

“C’mon,” she says, not even breaking her stride, “I’ll buy you lunch.”

He trots along beside her obediently, and Éponine appraises him from the corner of her eye. His hair is even longer, but it's all jammed under a dust-grey hat, and he's found a too-large pink sweatshirt with a faint paisley pattern that _definitely_ means he's taking his fashion cues from Bahorel. Which, well, there are worse people to imitate, but still. He's got a pair of fingerless gloves, too, which is good.

"Classes are boring," Gavroche informs her, a hint of a whine in his tone, and Éponine clicks her tongue, holding open the door to the boulangerie that Grantaire introduced her to about a year ago.

"Tough luck. It's important, knowing a bit here and there," she tells him as he ducks in before her. "You don't wanna end up digging for prospects when a little more schooling will get you just a little bit more."

She keeps him close while she chats with the man behind the counter, just a few polite minutes of conversation because she comes here often enough but it _is_ the rush hour and there are plenty of people who will come in out of the cold. So she takes the bread, thanks him, and splits it with Gavroche.

"Come around for dinner," she tells him. "Grantaire's got something slow cooking."

Gavroche looks up at her, serious and evaluating, and then he smiles, crooked and endearing. "Yeah, okay."

Éponine watches him scurry off into the streets, and wonders just what it is he seeks her out for. But mostly she's just grateful that he does at all. She thinks about it all the way through her break and all the way through the rest of her shift, running on autopilot and wondering what life will be like when she doesn't have to do this anymore, because she won't be doing this forever. With any luck, Gavroche will never have to.

Grantaire's home before she is, cooking away in the kitchen with whatever vegetables he's managed to charm away from the markets - he always seems to get better prices than anyone she knows, even when it's cold and miserable. He's charming enough, when he wants to be.

She tells him Gavroche is probably coming over and he grins in a way that lights up his face and crinkles his eyes with the force of it, all the melancholy and exhaustion lifting away.

"Send him a text," he tells her, earnest rather than grandiose, "and tell him to bring a friend or three."

"Wait to invite over all the orphans of Paris until we're prepared for it," Éponine tells him, but sends Gavroche a text anyway. She's not entirely sure where or how he got a phone that works reliably - she suspects either Montparnasse or Enjolras (possibly both, though Gavroche with two phones is a terrifying thought) - but she's grateful for it. He may not always reply, but at least she knows he gets the message.

When he shows up, he’s alone, though, which really isn’t that surprising. It’s a careful line they have to walk, trying to help Gavroche and his little band of Parisian orphans while knowing that they really, really ought to alert the authorities. It would probably be easier, Éponine thinks, if she actually trusted the fucking authorities. She doesn’t, certainly, after a lifetime of being watched with suspicion and disdain.

Gavroche definitely doesn’t, and Éponine isn’t surprised. Authority figures have never been kind to him, and she’s happy enough that he’ll come in like a half-stray cat after the way her parents treated him while they were growing up. So they do what they can that won’t get them in trouble, but it’s so fucking hard. Éponine wishes it were easier because the memory of huger is still close enough that it pains her.

But he’s doing okay, as well as can be expected. When she goes to clean up after they eat, she can hear the murmur of quiet voices in the living room, and she returns to see Gavroche and Grantaire talking quietly, seriously. She doesn’t know what about, and she’s not going to push, but it’s nice to know that there’s someone Gavroche will talk to.

He doesn’t leave for the rest of the week, and Éponine quietly hopes that means he’s moving in for the winter. It seems like he’s actually going to school, or at least no one’s called or come knocking and he has tattered papers that get shoved into his ratty backpack, and she’ll count it a victory.

On the sixteenth, Grantaire pats her shoulder and drags Gavroche along with him to Bossuet’s first night of Hanukah celebration with Joly and Musichetta. Éponine doesn’t know them as well, doesn’t get along with them in the same easy way that Grantaire does, but she’s really glad that he has friends that make him light up in a way that even she can’t.

He just has weeks that are quiet storms of anxiety or depression, where he’s sad and furious and helpless to do anything, and Éponine hates weathering them, never knows what to _do_ , but they seem to be able to coax him out. It was worse, when she met him, or so she assumes, because they weren’t really noticeable until they decided to move in together, when he’d go so quiet and blank. Now, it’s better, and she knows vaguely that he’s seeing a counselor even if she’d never pry in on the details.

Éponine kind of wonders how she’s changed too, sometimes. Well, she’s thinking ahead, thinking of ways to _better_ what she already has, takes courses and opportunities that she seeks out instead of just not caring, believes now that Grantaire won’t leave her hanging just before rent is due, actually thinks that maybe there’s some sort of stability that can be found and maintained. She’s thinking about where else she could work that’s a little less awful even though she needs clothes that are a little more professional, and it never even occurs to her to worry when Grantaire says not to fret about that. It’s not so hard to sleep, now, and know that she has a firm roof over her head that won’t leak and nothing terrible to breathe into her lungs. It’s like having a family in a way she never realized she was missing.

She thinks about texting Cosette or Feuilly, but it really isn’t often that Éponine gets actual legitimate time to herself. So she takes the evening off and reads a book and listens to music and falls asleep before it’s even too late. When she wakes up in the morning, there’s food sitting out on the counter for her and Gavroche is snoring on the couch, because Grantaire is an excellent friend.

That’s part of what hurts so much when she comes in after a long day (she only worked a half day, but she’s been feeling out tentative places to apply for a better, steadier job after the season ends) and finds the house too quiet.

Grantaire is sitting, slumped, on the couch, his shoulders tense and face drawn tight, a letter slowly wrinkling in his hands and a neatly printed cheque sitting on the table.

“The parents?” Éponine asks as gently as she dares, leaning on the back of the sofa and leaving her hand hovering over his shoulder so she doesn’t startle him.

“Yeah.” He shrugs, stiff, doesn’t meet her eyes. Grantaire folds the letter, tucks it away. “The usual, you know how it goes.”

There’s a moment where she hesitates, then rests her hand on his shoulder, leaning forward so they can talk better when he partially turns to the side. “R, you don’t have to take their money. We’ll be okay without it, if they’re giving you hell.”

“It’s just the same stuff as usual,” he says, and his smile is tight and sad. “I know we’d be okay, but this makes it _so much easier_ , ‘Ponine. You’re working hard enough as it is and you need a new coat, and so does Gavroche, and he could really use a new bag because his falling apart. And it would be really fucking nice to turn on the heat next month. So, yeah, it sucks, but I can handle the guilt trips and the emotional manipulation until we’re a little more on our feet.”

Sometimes it strikes her just how much he really loves them both. Grantaire tries so hard to pretend like nothing fazes him, like he’s just drifting through life without a thought for the consequences, but he’s so incredibly careful with this fragile little place of safety they’re constructing and she feels so fucking lucky to know him.

But Éponine is Éponine and doesn’t know how to put that into words, so she squeezes his shoulder instead.

“Well, if you ever want to tell them to fuck off, you should feel free,” she says, finally, and earns a real smile. They stay like that for a long moment, until Grantaire takes in a slow, shuddering breath, and Éponine pretends it doesn’t sound wet at all.

When the cheque goes through two days later, and Grantaire quietly takes care of the bills, Éponine wishes she knew a way to thank him deeply enough.

“Is everything okay?” Gavroche asks her in a hushed tone that night, eyes darting back to the hallway where Grantaire’s already disappeared.

“It’s fine,” Éponine promises, and Gavroche studies her with narrowed eyes before he sighs, like he knows that he’ll get nothing more out of her, and rocks his shoulder against hers.

“You’re important, you know,” he informs her, and Éponine smiles despite herself.

“You are too, kid.”

He grins back, and it’s a little easier.

It would be quiet after that, probably, but a week later, he walks in with a strange look on his face, and she has no idea what could have gone wrong now. It’s a long day for him, she knows, he’s been out since five and it’s nearing eight now, which leaves plenty of ways for their world to have self-destructed.

“Hey,” he says, watching her face. “I ran into Azelma today.”

Éponine freezes, heart racing, muscles tensing because _Azelma_. “Where did you see her? Is she alright? What the _fuck_ , Grantaire.”

He holds up his hands, gentle.

“She’s okay,” he promises, pulling out another letter, and this one is nowhere near as crumbled, only a little creased, as though he’s been running his fingers over it for hours, and offers it out. “She’s skittish, and I can’t tell you where she is, but she wanted me to give this to you.”

She wants to snap at him, but instead her fingers flash forward and she nearly rips the letter for his hands, recognizing Azelma’s painstaking cursive. The paper is nice, though, not the sort of thing she would steal from a corner store or library, so she must be doing okay. Éponine’s heart unclenches a little even as she opens the envelope.

It’s just a short note, not a whole lot, just promising that Azelma is safe and well. There’s an apology for not being in touch, as though that _matters_ to Éponine as long as she knows Azelma is alive and okay, and an awkward splotch of ink before Azelma passes on a hello to Gavroche and a Happy Christmas to them both. Her heart is in her throat and she’s half tempted to drop down on the floor, but instead she gently hugs the letter to her chest and lets out a slow, controlled breath.

“She’s really okay,” Grantaire says with nothing gruff about it, because he trusts her, and that makes her want to punch his stupid face much less. “She’s doing well for herself. I think she just wants to have her feet under her a little more before she comes to find you, but she doesn’t want you to worry.”

Éponine thinks about asking again where he met her, for how long, if he’d seen her before. But poking will get nowhere, and Grantaire takes promises very seriously. For now, it’s enough to know that Azelma is okay and thinking of them. Next year, well, next year she’ll try to strike up a conversation.

“Thanks,” she finally manages, her throat feeling dry, and Grantaire returns the favor of pretending not to notice.

He enlists her help in the kitchen, rambling about this and that out on the town, and the tourists who decided they wanted to experience a Parisian winter, circling this way and that.

“Bahorel says his mom’s knitting Gavroche a sweater, so that’s one thing off the list,” Grantaire tells her, like it’s in no way odd that he’s somehow become another parent, practically, to her teenage brother (not that Gavroche seems to be complaining). “So a coat for him, I saw one the other day that would likely suit his sensibilities, and probably a new bag. Courfeyrac’s into messenger bags these days, and I saw Gavroche eyeing his, so that’s a thought.”

“Sounds good,” Éponine says and Grantaire abruptly switches tangents as Gavroche walks in the door, loudly announcing his arrival. He comes into the kitchen and leans against the counter, trying to snag food from Grantaire, who is laughing and fending him off.

It feels, almost, like Gavroche has brought in a swirl of warmth in his wake and despite everything this year it actually feels like the next one might be just fine. They’re going to keep making it all work out, and fuck but it’s nice to know that Gavroche can still walk through the door so freely.

Éponine watches them for a moment, fond, and then she ducks her head to look as the pile of potatoes she’s chopping, and she smiles.


End file.
